Circumstances Cannot Permit
by KamisButterflies
Summary: One night was not enough. DracoHarry, Draco's POV.


Circumstances Cannot Permit

by Kami-chan

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Draco/Harry

Rating: Hard R

Warnings: BL, with a hint of lemon and a whole bunch of angst. Death.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I making any money off this fanfiction.

Notes: Some angsty little thing I wrote at 4 am. Insomnia is awful. Forget diamonds, kiddies. Sleeping pills and lemons are a girl's best friend. I wrote it because I realized a while ago that I told Becca I'd write a Darry fic for her birthday. ; So, very belated or very early birthday present for Becca!

I was _not _jealous. I want to make that completely and totally clear before another word is spoken. I was not jealous of him. When I looked upon him, it was neither envy nor spite that fueled my contempt; nor was it enmity. Even with everything he had, everything that I didn't – his good looks, his chaste charm, his cleverness and swiftness on the Quidditch pitch. Everything I hadn't. Even so, it was not jealousy.

I can't place it in words. It's something just shy of selfishness, and a bit more than desire. We are like yin and yang, we two. I, the golden-haired Adonis to his dark, striking Eros. I, the nimble shadow to his quick and steady light. I, the quiet, voyeuristic admirer of his foolish, vain naiveté. He can try as much as he wants to deny that I am a part of him, but he can't escape it. We're two sides of the same sexy coin.

He despised me; he always has. I offered him my hand in friendship those many years ago, and he scorned me with the same arrogant grace that I eventually came to admire. It was a sweet, innocent arrogance that perfectly complimented my own sly conceit. We fit together perfectly, like interlocking pieces of a vast, elaborate jigsaw.

Under different circumstances, I think we could have been happy together. We could have run away to some far-off place, away from the derisive eyes of a judgmental society, to live out our years in some quaint little cabin in the dead of a wood. We could drink and laugh and fuck to our hearts content every single night and it wouldn't matter one god-damned bit. Under different circumstances – if he hadn't been the Boy Who Lived, and I hadn't been the abused son of a crazed death eater; if he hadn't been famous, and I hadn't been cruel. What a sweet, sickening little fantasy.

I had one night with that boy. One glorious, starry fucking night that wound up hurting far more than I'd imagined. He didn't realize I was in that dingy little pub in Hogsmeade. He came in without a second glance, and the coincidence of our paths crossing was just too much to bear. The tension had become too great. We didn't return to school that night. Instead, we spent our money on a rented room and the silence of the barkeep who sold it to us.

The fire seemed to burn all night, in the hearth and in his eyes. He was clumsy, but passionate. His fingers faltered at the clasps of my robes, while mine ripped his away with the deftness that determination had granted me. He was gentle, I was ravenous. He was frightened, I was insistent. His body was beautiful when shed of its covering, and his lips tasted every bit as reclusive and sweet as I'd imagined them. He made the loveliest little grunts and groans, biting at his knuckles when he feared he'd been too loud. This only encouraged me, of course, and I strove harder until I had him nearly screaming beneath me.

From dusk until dawn, we scarcely took a moment's rest. And when the faintest light of the sun began to creep over the horizon, I noticed a hint of melancholy in his eyes. The brighter the light became, so darker was the emotion in his eyes, until he was weeping at the sight of morning. We would be late for class, and if we were missed in Potions, rumors would no doubt begin to spread. He could only lie in the soiled bed as I dressed, hiding his face as his shoulders shook. I couldn't bring myself to speak to him. I already felt as if I were dying inside, and offering solace would no doubt result in my own tears being shed as well.

I couldn't even look at him as I walked out the door. I uttered a quiet, fateful three words, and left before he had the chance to respond. It would be easier to deal with, smoother to heal if I didn't know he felt the same.

Our confrontations in the following years were awkward. I could only offer half-hearted snide remarks in response to another's goading him on. I could only smile weakly at the cruel jokes of the other Slytherins. When we passed in the hallway, our eyes met only briefly, before our heads turned in opposite directions completely.

How strange, then, that it should come to this. Him against me. Star-crossed lovers pitted against each other in mortal combat. Voldemort's champion against the Boy Who Lived. Hard as I fought, and brutally as I swung, it came down to this. Teeth gritted, breath panting, eyes locked, wands pressed directly against each other's throats. It was torturous. It seemed to be taking hours, days, decades, eternities. Our breaths slowed, our muscles relaxed, and still we stared.

Neither of us is willing to take the final blow. Our battle could sway either way at this point, yet each of us hesitates. It's ironic. A few years ago, he would not have thought twice about ending my life. How swiftly the tides of one's life can turn.

"Malfoy," he whispers, hand gripping tighter on his wand.

"Yes Potter?" I ask, though I already know what is coming.

"…I love you, too."

And my world is filled with a blinding green flash.


End file.
